T. Keane
05-11-2009, 02:23 AM
Advice/critique/comments encouraged.
Flag Runner
Rubbed raw, red, black
The artificial sting
The smell of plastic and copper
Of sweat
Of adrenaline
Of chains raked across screaming pale figures
To enter a tortured soul, a torn form
To take leave as the same patchwork frame
With naught but a muddied mind to show for it
To show for this sordid game
Twistable rules
Tables turned
Torn and treaded
Upon
Around
To stand again
To fight
To run with a burning flag
To plant that flag in the cornerstone of humanity and let it burn there,
Ash coating the world in plumes and beautiful patterns
Choking
Crying
From joy and wonder
The ash burns my eyes, clouds my vision, I tear at it
Rubbed raw, red, black
The embrace of the sting
The smell of triumph
Of anger
Of instinct
Of a world left in shambles, with no room left but for one thing
Rebuild
Flag Runner
Rubbed raw, red, black
The artificial sting
The smell of plastic and copper
Of sweat
Of adrenaline
Of chains raked across screaming pale figures
To enter a tortured soul, a torn form
To take leave as the same patchwork frame
With naught but a muddied mind to show for it
To show for this sordid game
Twistable rules
Tables turned
Torn and treaded
Upon
Around
To stand again
To fight
To run with a burning flag
To plant that flag in the cornerstone of humanity and let it burn there,
Ash coating the world in plumes and beautiful patterns
Choking
Crying
From joy and wonder
The ash burns my eyes, clouds my vision, I tear at it
Rubbed raw, red, black
The embrace of the sting
The smell of triumph
Of anger
Of instinct
Of a world left in shambles, with no room left but for one thing
Rebuild